


A Home for Bees and Beekeepers

by agirlsname



Series: About the Beekeeping Years [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beekeeping, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Just Married, M/M, New Relationship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Retirementlock, Romantic Gestures, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: John and Sherlock have just moved into their lodge in Sussex. When Sherlock is away for a week, John arranges a surprise for him.Based on this prompt:John reads up on which plants are best for bees to produce honey and plans their garden around them without telling Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: About the Beekeeping Years [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824217
Comments: 64
Kudos: 215
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	A Home for Bees and Beekeepers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [P](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=P).



> This fic is dedicated to my beekeeper grandfather. Ever since I wrote _The General Idea_ , I've wanted to come back and write a sequel about Sherlock and his bees. When my grandfather passed away in July 2020, it was finally time to write that sequel in his honour.
> 
> Thank you [Berty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty) for the gardening prompt, giving me something to structure the story around! And thank you [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx) for the gorgeous [reading of the first part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475776), the beautiful soundtrack of which was an inspiration when I wrote this fic.
> 
> A shoutout to the two fascinating blogs about beekeeping that I would've been lost without: perfectbee.com and beekeepinglikeagirl.com. I even borrowed some wordings from the latter because it was so inspiring, especially paired with the [magical video](https://beekeepinglikeagirl.com/how-to-catch-a-swarm-of-bees/) of scooping bees into a hive.
> 
> Thank you Akhenaten's Mummy for always standing by my side. This December she's agreed beta no less than three fics for me, after a very quiet fic year, because she's amazing!
> 
> And lastly, thank you _morfar_ for the incredible things you left behind.

The rails start humming long before the train is in sight. It's a subtle sound, but if you listen for it, quite obvious. Sherlock picks it up from where he's standing on the platform, as close to the tracks as allowed, gazing impatiently into the distance. When the train appears, the early June sun glimmers on the metal.

Sherlock is the first to board. He drops into his seat and leans his head against the window. He feels like the little boy he definitely no longer is; thrilled by the travel and excited about the destination. The train starts moving, and he imagines a soft piano in the sound of the wheels on the rails. Music that sounds like light and hope.

In three hours, he will have John Watson-Holmes in his arms.

He has been away from John for a whole week. It's been years since they were last apart for that long – which is curious, because during those years they were (supposedly) merely flatmates, and now they are actual newly-weds. But it was decided long ago that when Mummy had her surgery, Sherlock would go and stay with Father to assist him. Naturally, hospitals being hospitals, they scheduled the surgery with the worst possible timing, only a few weeks after Sherlock and John moved into their lodge in Sussex.

John had offered to come with Sherlock, of course. But really, he had to stay at home. The bathroom renovations were due to be be finished the same week, and at least one of them needed to be there to oversee the proceedings. Also, Sherlock had been in contact with an old beekeeper who had agreed to sell Sherlock her equipment and empty hives, and it had to be collected that same week. Sherlock had asked John to do it for him and gone away, not really grasping how long a week would be without his husband.

It has been good to spend time with Father. Sherlock is hardly ever alone with him, and he had forgotten the sort of conversations they can have when it's just the two of them. But oh, to have the steadying presence of John beside him… to reach out and ask for the simple touches he is now allowed, and to meet his parents as an actual married couple… Sherlock always misses John when he is absent, but now it feels as though he were missing a limb.

He takes out his mobile and fiddles with it for a few seconds before typing out a text. _B_ _oard_ _ed_ _train_ _._ _Arrival at 2.45 pm. SH_

John's reply comes only a couple of minutes later. _I'll pick you up. See you soon._

An involuntary smile pulls at Sherlock's lips. He can't help it; can't help hearing the words in John's voice; can't help liking every word John chooses no matter how insignificant, even stupid; can't help loving whatever John does.

Sherlock's heart rate increases when the train finally approaches his destination. He presses himself against the window to scan the platform – and yet, when he does catch sight of John's green jacket and silver hair, he doesn't feel better. If anything he feels worse, heart beat accelerating enough to make him slightly nauseous.

He's _nervous_ , he realises. How ridiculous. That man married him not two months ago – it shouldn't matter _now_ how Sherlock behaves. But when Sherlock walks across the platform towards John, he is still struck by insecurity. How are they supposed to greet each other after spending time apart? Is there an etiquette for that sort of thing?

John has not yet spotted him. He stands there with his hands behind his back, his jacket open over the dark blue jumper. His hair is short, cut in a military style just as it has been for the thirty years Sherlock has known him. All of a sudden, Sherlock is reminded of the night of their first case, when he caught sight of the unassuming, beautiful man waiting for him just outside the scene of his own crime. Reminded of the moment Sherlock realised that John had killed to save his life after knowing him for all of one day. The moment he knew that he had for the first time in his life found something that he desperately wanted to keep.

Any second now, John will turn his head, catch sight of Sherlock and smile. Because in spite of all the terrible things that Sherlock has done, he somehow did find a way to keep John forever.

John's smile when they lock eyes is more of a grin; he no longer holds back. It still takes Sherlock by surprise. Johnsets off towards him, and Sherlock is only vaguely aware of speeding up his own steps. He stops monitoring what his body does, focused only on getting himself into John's arms. He runs the last steps and their chests collide, making air huff out of John's lungs on a chuckle.

“Hello, you”, John murmurs as he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock's fingers dig into John's back, pulling them closer together. “John”, he whispers stupidly. Someone passes them by on the platform, talking loudly on the phone, reminding Sherlock that they are in public – and what happened to his suitcase? He abruptly steps back from John and sees his bag toppled over on the ground a few steps behind him. “Did I…?”

“Um, yeah”, John says, rubbing his neck and failing miserably to hide his smile. “Yeah, you just sort of threw it away.”

“Oh.” Sherlock has no memory of doing that. He spins in a half-circle on the spot, making his coat swirl around his legs to hide his mortification. “Car?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Come on, then.” Sherlock stalks away, leaving John to pick up his suitcase, pretending to know exactly where they're going. He will probably be able to deduce it when he gets closer.

When John walks up beside him with the suitcase in hand Sherlock grits his teeth. He didn't kiss John. How could he be so foolish? He can hardly stop to do it _now_ , can he? He glances at John – John who is here with his flesh and his blood and his heat and his hands – and Sherlock doesn't know how to reach for him. Yes, they are married, but they have been a romantic couple for only three months. After a week apart, Sherlock feels unsure of the everyday intimacy they have so recently learned to share. It no longer feels easy to reach out and touch. Sherlock walks stiffly, his entire body tense with the effort not to throw himself at John and wrap himself around him in an unsolvable knot.

They stay silent until they are seated in the car, John by the wheel and Sherlock staring out the windscreen. He waits for John to start the engine, but it doesn't happen. Instead a warm palm lands on his thigh.

Sherlock looks up to find John gazing at him. He is not quite smiling, caught instead in the moment just before a smile; when his eyes have already started shining softly but his mouth has not yet begun to stretch. This is a new look on John's face that Sherlock never saw before they got engaged. It still makes him flustered. John often tells Sherlock that he loves him; but words can be thrown out carelessly, and they can be lies. This look cannot. This look on John's face is nothing but evidence.

Whenever Sherlock sees it he feels blindsided, because it is rarely in response to something he has done that seems particularly loveable. It's just… _there_ , this silent, solid love. Sherlock never feels that he has deserved this look. In fact,he's started to think that maybe that's what love actually is; the affection which is constant regardless of whether the object of the affection “deserves” it or not.

John's hand gently squeezes his thigh and he leans in towards Sherlock. Sherlock instinctively meets him halfway. The kiss is soft and slow, almost unbearably so.

Sherlock is having difficulty breathing even from such a simple contact. Though nothing about John is ever simple. Even in the simplest of kisses, John Watson-Holmes hides a strong intent, whether it is to invite Sherlock into a sexual encounter or, as now, to show Sherlock that he finds him precious. This kind of kiss has been known to nearly make Sherlock swoon on several occasions, one of them the first kiss they shared as a married couple.

They got married at the register office with only two witnesses present (Lestrade and Stamford). Sherlock had intended their kiss to be quick, mostly a symbol of their union, as they were standing in front of the boring officiant having just signed the unromantic papers. But John cupped Sherlock's face in the palms of his hands and brought their lips together slowly, languorously, and Sherlock could almost feel in the palms of John's hands how much he enjoyed it. Mortifyingly,Sherlock’s vision almost went black and he swayed dangerously on the carpet, something John unfortunately noticed. Hehas been trying to recreate it ever since, apparently determined to one day cause Sherlock to actually keel over.

John releases him now and leans back in his car seat. A spark in his eye says he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking about. Without a word, he finally starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, leaving Sherlock to starestupidly at him and his wondrous little mouth, wanting more.

John drives but leaves his hand on Sherlock's thigh. Now and again he idly caresses Sherlock's leg, and Sherlock shivers. He had forgotten how good it feels to sit in the front seat beside John as his husband, and have John's steady hands drift towards him whenever they get the chance. It makes him feel treasured. As if it's somehow important for John to have Sherlock beside him wherever he's going.

They reach the village and creep through the narrow streets, and it strikes Sherlock that it didn’t take long at all for the lodge to become _home_. It feels perfectly natural that this is the place they’re going to, not Baker Street – even though they lived there together for thirty years. As if this is where they were always supposed to end up.

When they finally open the door to their house, it smells just the way 221B always did.

John carries Sherlock’s suitcase into their bedroom, and when he comes back, Sherlock feels strangely off-kilter. His hands tingle with want to reach out and touch John, but somehow he doesn’t quite know how to do it. John leads him to the bathroom to show off the finished renovations, and Sherlock tries to stand tall and aloof when all he wants is to creepup behind John and wind his arms around the sturdy little torso.

He can tell that John is keyed up too. His shoulders are rigid and his posture keeps tilting towards Sherlock. The air between them vibrates with tension; it should be easy to give in and just snuggle the man. Instead Sherlock hears himself asking about the new beehives.

John clears his throat. “Um, yeah. They’re in the back garden.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. John has a habit of clearing his throat when he’s nervous or unsure of something. That, and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck – ah, there it is. Conclusion: there is something John is not telling him. But when Sherlock tries to deduce what it is, John turns his face away in quite a deliberate way.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow further. “Show me”, he demands.

“Sure. After you”, John says with a small smile that Sherlock fails to decipher.

Sherlock strides to the back door and throws it open, fully expecting to see the beehives in a pile of rotten wood or something equally as frightful. But no; they stand in the middle of the lawn, looking stable just as described. What makes Sherlock stop short in the doorway is the state of the garden itself.

When they moved in, the garden was a mess; overgrown bushes, dead branches and weeds everywhere. Sherlock has not had time to tidy it, and it has been a silent worry of his; that the bees will not like it here and choose to leave before he can get properly started with them. But now most of the wild bushes are gone. Instead there are flower beds; neat sections of small plants, and stretches of fresh soil waiting to be used. There is a spade and a black plastic bag lying on one of them, where John is clearly still working on getting rid of the weeds.

Sherlock turns to stare at his husband, standing half a step behind him and looking critically out at the garden. “I didn’t get as far as I hoped”, John says sheepishly. “I never knew gardening took so much time.”

“You… _G_ _ardening_.” Sherlock sounds stupid. He knows this.

“Yeah.” John clears his throat again.

“You have never gardened before in your life.”

John huffs a short laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“No, I-” Sherlock turns back to the garden and frowns. “Why did you do this?”

“To surprise you, you git.” John gives a half-smile as he pushes past Sherlock in the doorway to enter the garden. “Turns out it’s a lot of fun, too. I found a blog about beekeeping with a list of flowers honeybees like, so I’ve planned the garden based on that. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

John starts walking towards one of the flower beds. When Sherlock doesn’t immediately follow, John turns towardshim.

“Look, I know I’m a rookie. You’re the expert on bees. I just thought… you know, it’s a start. If nothing else, most of the weeds are gone now.”

Sherlock finally steps out onto the grass. “Let me see.”

“Right. I bought a few plants and did research on where to plant them, and how. That bloke on the beekeeping blogwrote about different flowers for different seasons, so I started with the ones that bloom now. Wanted it to look nice when you got back home.”

There is something wrong with Sherlock’s throat; his voice seems not to be working. He has the strangest sensation in his chest, too.

“Anyway”, John goes on, “here’s the yarrow. These red ones are called Strawberry Seduction, apparently. And here’s Bachelor’s Buttons.” He walks ahead through the garden, letting Sherlock trail behind and admire the explosive colours of the flowers John has chosen. “The sunflower plants are still in the shed, but I’m going to plant them here tomorrow. I got a dwarf kind – dunno if you prefer the big ones? We can always get more.”

John goes on about the flowers, and Sherlock notes with surprise that John is truly invested in this garden. Sherlock has seen no signs of John being a garden enthusiast during their thirty years together; but indeed, he talks about these flowers with passion and pride.

“I was thinking some asters here”, John says as they walk past an empty flower bed. “They seem to be popular. We can look at it together, if there’s anything you want to have. Oh, and here’s the coneflowers. I got the pink ones; they looked the most cheerful to me. Echinacea purpurea-”

“John”, Sherlock cuts in.

“Yeah, I know, my latin pronunciation is-”

“John, how did you know?”

John frowns. “Know what?”

Sherlock has stopped in the middle of the lawn. “I haven’t talked about the garden. I have been thinking about it, andnever found the time to tidy up, make a structure, plant flowers. The bees…” Sherlock rolls his lips between his teeth and bites them. He looks out over the fresh garden, a manifestation of bold new life and potential. “I _needed_ this. But I haven’t said that to you.”

John’s eyes become soft. “I know all that anyway.” He reaches out and touches the back of Sherlock’s hand with his fingertips. “You’re my husband and my best friend. I know you.”

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand, still gently brushing against his own. He turns his hand and intertwines their fingers. Staring at their joined hands, he wonders why he is so profoundly moved by this gift of John’s. It’s just that the few times he dared to dream of them becoming involved, he still never imagined that John would be romantic with him in a way that _fit_ _ted_ him, Sherlock Holmes. That he would see what’s important to Sherlock, and that he would respect it, even honour it. John surrounds Sherlock with a quiet sort of care that makes him feel loved; not conditionally, but truly.

“I think it’s wonderful”, Sherlock whispers to their hands.

He hears the smile in John’s voice when he replies: “I think you’re wonderful.”

Sherlock laughs wetly. “I know.”

Finally John steps forward, cups Sherlock’s jaw in the palm of his hand and kisses him.

***

Sherlock finds his first bee swarm on a warm Tuesday morning. The cluster of bees is wrapped around a thick branch in the park outside the local library. Sherlock cannot quite believe his luck, finding an actual swarm for his first colony, even though he has told everyone with confidence that he will catch his first bees wild and not buy them. The story he will later tell will be that he knew this swarm would be here at this time, but really he is so excited and grateful that he almostweeps.

He places his hive box as close to the tree as he can. The bees are humming contentedly and crawling over each other, warming the queen resting somewhere in the heart of the cluster. Sherlock has studied the art of beekeeping avidly for more than a year, and he doesn’t hesitate at all before reaching out with his bare hand and carefully sticking his fingers into the swarm.

All his studying did not prepare him for the sensation of the peculiar state of matter that a bee cluster is. It is surprisingly warm in there, and he can feel hundreds of tiny bee feet picking at his fingers. The wings brush softly against his skin. Sherlock cups his hand and gently separates a big handful of bees from the cluster. They are reluctant to let go of each other, but they are not at all defensive; a swarm has no home, no brood and no honey to protect, and is therefore docile.

The bees hold onto each other, creating chains hanging between his hand and the tree branch as he slowly lowers his hand to the hive box. They crawl onto the wood and start disappearing in between the slots to investigate. A little group of bees still cling to his skin, crawling happily in circles around each other.

“Hello, little friends”, he can’t help but murmur.

As he straightens and scoops up another handful of bees from the cluster, he has the most marvellous feeling of connection with the tiny creatures. They let him move them without protest as if they trust him. And with the fourth handful, he can finally spot the queen. She is crawling on top of the bees he holds in his hand, gold-brown and beautiful.

He gets the queen bee into the hive, and at that point, many of the bees still on the branch are flying into the hive box. Sherlock keeps scooping the rest of them and is so focused on the work that when it is suddenly done, he couldn’t saywhether it has only taken ten minutes or two hours.

One week later, Sherlock is confident that the bees have decided to live in his hive. He watches them fly around John’sflowers in the evening sun, feeling oddly honoured that they chose to stay here with him.

The sun is low, illuminating the garden with a deep orange light. It makes the colours of the flowers rich. John has worked tirelessly on making the garden as beautiful and inviting as possible, and now the flower petals present a cascade of all colours on the spectrum.

An evening like this calls for the violin.

Sherlock walks into the middle of the garden with his violin under his arm, then raises it to his shoulder. The summer night is still and silent, only the murmur of the bees filling the air as they make themselves at home in the Watson-Holmes garden. The first note fills the air as if the night has been holding its breath, waiting for Sherlock’s music to settle into it.

Sherlock plays the air clearer, he plays the sun warmer, he plays the bees safer. He plays until he and his violin are a part of the earth, and every being – every bee, every flower, every human – is home.

His last tone rings out. Everything is calm and serene. He watches his little friends dance in the air, humming the tune from his violin, and he allows himself to stand there for a few more moments with his violin and bow hanging from his hands.

He thinks about how he’s growing soft in his old age. He has let life with John smooth his sharp edges, and after their marriage he even lets it show. It is all quite surprising; he didn’t expect to reach this age in the first place. Now his life has suddenly taken a new, unpredictable direction. What the future in this Sussex cottage holds for him, and how he will grow within it, he does not know.

What he does know is that when he turns around, he will see John leaning against the doorframe.

John will have listened to Sherlock’s music, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He will have watched Sherlock’s back move beneath his jacket while he played.

And he will smile.


End file.
